


On the Steps of the Palace

by AppleJuiz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Returns, Identity Issues, M/M, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleJuiz/pseuds/AppleJuiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights though, he would lie awake, staring at the tacky glow in the dark stars he put on the ceiling four months ago, and wonder what it would be like if Steve didn't love Bucky Barnes. He wondered if Steve would love him instead. And for a few moments he would smile dumbly at the ceiling just imagining it, before reality sank in and he had to push down all the bitterness and hurt again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Steps of the Palace

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I thought I'd post a little something I've been working on for a while. It certainly isn't my best work, but I hope you enjoy it!!

There's a difference between cycles and routines.

That's the first thing Bucky learns post-Hydra. Cycles aren't time specific. Cycles are gun, blood, wipe and cryo in that exact order every time without any certainty of how long each phase will last.

Routines are different. Bucky likes routines, likes the one he’s created for himself. It offers a sense of safety and security that was missing from his first few months of wandering and hiding. He can wake up in the morning and not panic over all the different choices he has to make or worry about what he’s going to do, how he’s going to survive, how he’s going to keep going. He feels more put together than he has in- well, over 70 years: confident, safe, sure of what he’s doing most of the time. His weeks are calm, predictable, slightly monotonous at times, but comforting and relaxing.

Monday is movie day, because he has a lot to catch up on. He has a fruit cup for breakfast and stays in pajamas all day because that's something he can do now if he feels like it. He found a list of must see movies on the internet that he’s been following, but lately he’s been straying more and more as he finds the genres he likes (and if those include cheesy 80’s rom coms, nobody is around to judge him).

On Tuesdays, he journeys miles and miles around the city. Walking far, listening to music so he's not trapped in his own head, taking in the fresh air and the freedom of the world around him. Back at the beginning of his second chance at life, he couldn’t leave his safe house without being armed to the teeth or completely disguised, so he’s insanely proud of himself every Tuesday when he trusts his oversized red hoodie and a single dagger to be enough when he leaves the house.

Wednesday is dedicated to TV, which is maybe his favorite part of the future. TV Wednesdays are similar to Movie Monday, but he puts on sweatpants instead of pjs so he can get his pizza from the delivery guy and not look like a lazy, unproductive human being, despite the fact that he is actually a lazy unproductive human being but he deserves it at this point.

Thursday is New Food Day. He usually sleeps in super late, another thing he does just because he can.  When lunch or dinner comes around, he makes a point to go to the strangest restaurant he can find and order the strangest thing on the menu. It’s an awful system and an awful idea.  There are somethings in this world that no man should consume, but Bucky, no matter how sick he gets, keeps the same Thursday routine.  If he had a therapist, they might say it has to do with control or making choices or something like that but he doesn’t have a therapist, thank you very much, no matter how much he probably needs one.

On Fridays he reads: books, old or new, comics, textbooks, anything he can get his hands on. He sits in the local library, nestled in a back corner with a super frilly Starbucks drink and stays there until his legs start hurting. Then he goes and grabs some froyo from the small shop across the street before heading home.

Saturday's are his favorite. Mall Day. There's a large shopping center 3.4 miles from his apartment, so he walks there and through the entire length of the mall, buying anything that catches his attention. He has a collection of postcards from places he's never been, stupid little kids trinkets that make noise or change color, different colored geodes and gems, and every bit of Captain America merchandise he can find. Every single item. It’s an obsession, and it’s worth every cent. Though the Captain America plushie he found three months ago is quite easily the most horrifying thing he's seen.  It still gives him nightmares, which granted, aren’t as bad as the other nightmares he has, so he’s not really complaining.

And alright, he might have lied about Saturday being his favorite because then there's Sunday. Sundays are the worst day and the best day at the same time. Sundays are dedicated to Steve. 

It starts off awful, every week without fail. Bucky wakes up and does not want to get out of bed. He forces himself up anyway, force himself to eat something, watch the news and whatever Sunday morning programing the channels have to offer. And then he starts getting anxious, maybe has a breakdown or two. But he eventually works up the courage to make himself presentable, and marches his way over to Steve's apartment. That was the good part. Steve, always without fail, smiles so wide Bucky thinks it has to hurt, and offers him dinner. Bucky suggests a movie, usually one he’s seen before so he can focus on Steve and slowly inching his way closer on the couch. Afterwards they crawl into bed and he lets Steve be the big spoon because it comforts him. Yet before Steve wakes up, he sneaks out of the apartment to be home in time for Movie Monday and start the week over again.

Each week he tries to stay through the night with Steve but every time he ends up leaving.  Sundays are the one day in the week where Bucky doesn’t do whatever he wants.  Sundays are about Steve.

~

The problem is Steve wants his best friend. And while Bucky remembers more every day, he’s nothing like the old Bucky. Even putting aside the night terrors and panic attacks, and oh right, the really fucking obvious metal arm, he’s different. His interests are different, his sense of humor is different. Every day, every time he says or does anything, he can feel the difference in it.

And Steve doesn’t want this new stranger that wears his best friend's face; he wants his best friend. So Bucky spends most of his Sunday, preparing to pretend to be Steve's best friend.

Sunday used to be Music Day. He would go out to whatever free dance class he could find. Stop by a club or whatever he felt like. Dancing is probably the one interest he shared with Bucky Barnes. Dancing and Steve.

Not being around Steve left a physical ache in his chest. Missing Steve was like missing a part of himself, like missing an arm.

So once he started doing better, when he didn't wake up screaming every night anymore, only some, once he could go outside without ending up vomiting in an alley, and panic attacks and lapses in memory were far and few between, he decided he didn't have an excuse to stay away anymore.

So he did as much research on Bucky Barnes as he could, sorted through all his memories to pick out mannerisms and traits and speech patterns that didn't belong to him anymore, and hoped he could be a good enough actor to make Steve happy.

Originally, it wasn't supposed to be a part of the routine. He packed a backpack with bare necessities, a few changes of clothes, and a small present for Steve, and prepared to let go of the life he had built so far and start from scratch with Steve. The plan was simple: head to his apartment, convince Steve that he was in fact Bucky Barnes, not the Winter Soldier, and see if Steve would still have him after everything.

He even had a little speech planned as well. "Hey, pal. Sorry it took so long to find my way back here. Looks like I took too much of the stupid with me." It was corny as fuck and felt weird in his mouth but it sounded like something Bucky Barnes would say, so he would force it out.   
Except he didn't get to. Because Steve called out, "Sam, I thought I told you I was busy tonight," after he knocked. And then the door was open and Steve gasped and his face went slack.

"I can come back at a different time," Bucky offered, slightly panicking. But then suddenly Steve was in his arms and sobbing loudly into his neck.

"Oh, fuck," Bucky muttered, but one hand came up to Steve's hair and the other began stroking his back, like it was instinct, like he really was the old Bucky Barnes. "C’mon, punk, inside. You're gonna scare the neighbors."

Steve cried for a full half hour, letting Bucky hold him on the couch and whisper soft assurances to him. Comforting Steve was easy, practically second nature and didn't require him to focus on what was coming out of his mouth. But then Steve started talking.

"Where were you?" He started, just staring in awe. "I looked everywhere. Are you okay? Did something happen? How are you feeling?"

And it all went downhill from there. Because he wanted to apologize for being gone so long and then explain using a metaphor he came up with a week ago that brainwashing was like really bad Mexican food in that it was unpleasant and seemingly unethical on the way in and burnt like all hell on the way out. But Bucky Barnes wouldn't have said that ever.

So he had to choke it down and put on a show.

"Calm down, pal. Had to make sure everything was in its right place up top before I could visit," he drawled, making sure to emphasis the right words and smirk the right way. He did it well enough, cuz Steve seemed convinced.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, fidgeting like he wanted to reach out. "I was making some lasagna, if you want any." Bucky had eaten before coming over, trying to settle the weirdness in his stomach, but Steve looked so eager to please.

"Yeah, buddy, I could eat," he replied, dropping his hand onto Steve's shoulder just like he used to and squeezing just enough. Steve's eyes got all watery again, but he hopped up and led him into the kitchen.

Things only got worse from there. He had to keep checking himself, to make sure he didn't slip out of character in the slightest, to make sure he kept up the illusion. He felt dirty and wrong, because even though Steve looked so happy, it was all fake. He hated lying to Steve, even if it was for his own good.

He plastered a mischievous grin on his face anyway and answered all the questions Steve asked the best he could without giving himself away. And when Steve asked if he wanted to stay the night, it didn't feel like an accomplishment. It didn't feel like he had achieved his goal. He felt only dread because that meant more pretending throughout the night and in the morning and for every single second that he stayed here.

So he talked Steve into sharing the bed (because a certain goddamn chivalrous idiot wanted to take the couch), held him tight until he fell asleep and crept out the window with his stuff.

He left the present though, a small leather bound sketchbook he had seen in the mall one day. He's pretty sure that even when he bought it he had planned to give it to Steve.

Despite telling himself to stay away, to not hurt Steve with his carelessness, he ended up going back at the end of the week. Being without Steve hurt more than pretending around Steve. So he would take what he could get. And the cycle repeated itself.

No, not a cycle. Never a cycle. Never again.

The routine would start over. And over and over.   
Sure, it wasn't perfect, but it was something, and he was grateful. So he let it become a routine, become second nature.

(Some nights though, he would lie awake, staring at the tacky glow in the dark stars he put on the ceiling four months ago, and wonder what it would be like if Steve didn't love Bucky Barnes. He wondered if Steve would love him instead. And for a few moments he would smile dumbly at the ceiling just imagining it, before reality sank in and he had to push down all the bitterness and hurt again.)

~

It was a regular Sunday, maybe four months after this whole thing had started. Steve was asleep, had been for hours, and Bucky was just focusing on the way his chest lifted with each breath, how soft his hair was, how warm and comfortable it was. It was getting late, or early, depending on how he wanted to count, but he let himself have just a few more moment of bliss with Steve before he had to head home.

When he finally did get up, though, his shoes weren't by the window. Which was wrong. He always left his shoes by the window, and slept on the side of the bed closest to the window so he could sneak out relatively easy without bothering Steve. It was part of his routine and he wouldn't forget to do it. In fact, he explicitly remembered putting his shoes there earlier, right before Steve came in and put on his pjs. Was he forgetting things again? Was he misremembering? Was he so fucked up in the head that he probably put his shoes on the toilet and didn't even realize and-?

"Please, don't leave," Steve choked out, curled up on the bed. His chest was heaving in the worst way, his voice was strained and cracking. His fists were white with how he gripped the sheets, his eyes were screwed shut, and he was shaking in a way that Bucky was sadly all too familiar with.   
He never took into consideration how Steve might have felt about his disappearing act. Never really considered if it was hurting him. And suddenly he felt like the scum of the earth because of course this was hurting Steve. Of course giving him his best friend just to leave again hours latter would crush him more than anything else.

Bucky hated himself for ever coming back, hated that he ever enjoyed these weekly meetings. Even when he was trying to do good by Steve, he still hurt Steve.   
He considered staying the night. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. To fall asleep in Steve's warm arms and wake up to sunlight and Steve's sleepy smile.   
But the longer he stayed, the more comfortable he got, the more likely he would slip up and not be what Steve wanted and... He wasn't sure what would happen after that. It wasn't like Steve would get mad or kick him out. Steve was too nice for that. He would probably plaster on a fake smile and assure him everything was alright. But he wouldn't be able to hide the devastation in his eyes. It would be worse than Bucky leaving every week. Letting Steve know he wasn't Bucky Barnes would be telling Steve his best friend was gone forever. He couldn't do that.

It would be so much easier if he didn't care, if he could just go home and stay home and not have to include Steve in his routine at all. But not having Steve in his life would be even worse than this in-between hell.

He couldn't keep pretending though. It just filled him up with false hope of a future with Steve that would never ever happen. Not the way he wanted it to, because Steve would never love him the way he loved Bucky Barnes. He saw how Steve looked at him, but the only thing that kept him from climbing into Steve's lap and staying there permanently was the painful knowledge that Steve didn't even know who he was, only saw the front that Bucky had put up.   
But he knew Steve.  And he knew that Steve was hurting and that was something both Bucky Barnes and who he is now can agree is something that should be prevented at all cost.

"I'm sorry," Steve whimpered, sounding like he was trying terribly hard to be okay. "I shouldn't have- just. I'm sorry, I- they're in the closet. I dunno why I- I shouldn't have done that. I dunno what- I just."

Bucky took a deep breath and walked over to the bed. He wanted to stay. Everything felt better when he's around Steve.   
He sat down carefully, pressing his back against the headboard. He wrapped his arm around Steve's broad shoulders and pulled him close.

"Shhhh," he muttered softly, running a hand along Steve's back. "Shhh, babydoll, deep breaths. It's okay, doll, I'm here. I've got you, okay?"

"’M sorry," Steve mumbled, sniffling and hiccuping. "I'm fine. I'm okay."

"It's okay, Stevie, just breath for me alright?" Bucky soothed softly. He pressed his mouth to the top of Steve's head, stroked along Steve's back. God, of all the torture he's been through this might possibly be the worst. He's so close to Steve, so fucking close he can feel every warm breath on his skin, count every freckle, but he's never felt so far away.

"I'm sorry," Steve mumbles, wiping furiously his eyes. He's still crying, and Bucky would give anything to make that pain go away, to prove that he can still do that for Steve, if nothing else.

"Don't apologize, Stevie. It's okay. I just wish you would tell me these things, darling. Let me know when you're hurting."

"I shouldn't have... You can leave whenever you like, I shouldn't pressure you or..." Steve said, frowning in that awful way that meant he was mad at himself.

"Baby, you're not making me do anything. You never make me do anything. If I wanna leave, I'll leave. If you want me to stay, I can stay. But only a little while, okay? I got things to do, but I can always make time for my best guy, okay?"

Steve nodded, wiped his nose on Bucky's shirt. Bucky Barnes would've made an indignant comment, probably ruffle Steve's hair and shake him around a bit. But he decided that Bucky Barnes was an idiot, and did not do that. He just pulled Steve in closer, planting a kiss on his forehead.

"Bucky," Steve mumbled, tilting his head back against Bucky's shoulder. "Why do you leave? Am I doing something wrong? Do you need me to-?"

"Steve, don't do that. Please. It's hard to explain," Bucky breathed, and his chest was actually hurting with how guilty he felt. Four full months and this is how he'd been making Steve feel. "I'm just... Still trying to figure out how to be me." Well, it wasn't a complete lie.

"You don't have to leave," Steve offered. "I want to help, Buck. I'm here for you, you know that right? 'Til the end of the line. You said that to me once and now it's my turn. I wanna be able to take care of you."

"I know, Stevie," Bucky assured him, eyes stinging. Oh no. No he couldn't be crying. He had no right to; he was the liar. He was hurting Steve with his own selfishness, so he had no right to be upset.

He closed his eyes, desperate to fight the urge to break down against Steve and sob until there was nothing left. He brought in a shaky breath and placed his hand on Steve's cheek.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, even though it wasn't enough.

"Buck, don't... I... Don't apologize," Steve protested. "You're here. That's all that matters to me. I'm just... So glad you're here."

 _But I'm not_ . Bucky wanted to scream it, and then apologize a million times for killing Steve's best friend, for being a shoddy ass replacement instead of the real thing.   
He doesn't do that. He leaned forward and brushed his lips chastely over Steve's. It soothed the ache in his chest for a few seconds before he had to pull away. Steve stared at him with wide, awe-filled eyes as he sat up and pulled his leather jacket off.

"Get some rest, sweetheart," Bucky instructed, climbing out of bed and draping the jacket over Steve's shoulders. He knew there was no need to keep Steve warm anymore, but a month ago he stole one of Steve's hoodies and slept in it sometimes because it smelt like Steve and comfort and home.

He walked over to the closet to get his boots, and leaving was ten times harder with Steve's eyes tracking him. But he grabbed his stuff, made his way to the window, and left the apartment, feeling empty.

~

Bucky didn't get home until three in the morning, two hours later than usual. Although really, as much as he loved his apartment, and he really fucking loved his apartment, it wasn't home. Steve was home and he just left Steve. Not Steve's apartment, but Steve himself. He's cried through enough sappy romance movies to know that a person can be a home.

Anyway, it's three in the morning and he's exhausted, but not because it's three in the morning. In fact, there was no way in hell he was getting any sleep, so he decided to screw it all to hell and have breakfast at three in the morning and start Movie Monday five hours early.

He ate his breakfast on the couch after changing into Steve's hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, because he fucking can. He scrolled through his list of to-watch movies for thirteen minutes before deciding on one of the many rom coms he bookmarked ironically.

For most of the day, he just felt empty. Just selecting movie after movie and letting himself be absorbed into the clichéd plots. It wasn’t until he’s halfway through _The Proposal_ that everything crashed down all at once. He paused the movie and threw his half empty bowl of pretzel chips across the room, which was going to be a pain in the ass to clean up later.

"Fuck," was all he said, and he got up, yanked on his boots and stormed out the door.

He can't do it anymore. He's not sure why it suddenly occurred to him, maybe because secretly really enjoyed the movie and knew somewhere in his empty grave, the real Bucky Barnes hates him with a burning passion for it.

He was really fucking tired of constantly comparing himself to someone who doesn't exist anymore. He hated it. And since it apparently wasn’t even making Steve happy, he's done. He can't dangle everything Steve wants in front of his face when there's nothing behind it.  He can't keep breaking himself, wondering why he can't be Bucky Barnes.

It has to stop. Steve needed to move on. Bucky needed to move on. And Bucky Barnes needed to learn how to stay in his goddamn grave.

He was in front of Steve's apartment door all of a sudden, not really sure how he got there. Before he began to question what exactly he was planning do, he pounded his fist into the door.

Shit. And then Steve was opening the door and it was too late to run so he might as well just get it over with.

"Buck?" Steve asked, eyes wide, and fuck, he was grinning softly and looking so fucking happy and Bucky had to take it all away.

"I need my jacket," Bucky announced, when he really just wanted to throw himself at Steve and beg for forgiveness.

"Oh," Steve replied, face falling slightly. "Sure. No problem."

He stepped back, gesturing for Bucky to come inside. And he really doesn't want to because he knows the second he steps inside, he's not going to want to leave.   
But he walked in anyway, bouncing with the nerves and anger boiling in his stomach. 

Do you want something to eat? I'm making some soup," Steve offered.

"No, Steve," he snapped, harsher than he meant to. "I don't want soup. I want my goddamn jacket so I can leave, okay?"  He yanked Steve's hoodie off and threw it at him. "I can't do this anymore."

And Steve, fuck, Steve looked heartbroken, balled up hoodie hanging off his shoulder.

"Is it because of last night?" He asked in a hoarse whisper. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that. And it won't happen again. I promise it won't, Buck."

"It doesn't matter Steve," he sighed, running a hand over his face. "I can't keep doing this. I'm sorry. I'm not who you want me to be."

"Bucky, I don't want you to be anyone," Steve protested, looking so goddamn earnest. "Is this because we... you know? Cuz you never had to-"

"I'm not Bucky Barnes," Bucky said, and it felt like the first true breath he’d taken in seventy years. Steve just looked confused.

"What do you mean?" He asked. "Of course you are."

"No I'm not, Steve. God knows I've tried to be but I'm not. I'm different. I'm not him."

"Of course you're different, Buck," Steve agreed, nodding desperately. "After everything... It's normal to be different."

"I'm not talking about Hydra," Bucky corrected, painful aware of how loud his voice was. "I get freaked out in large crowds and have trouble talking to strangers and sometimes I can only see people as threats and targets, but I've made peace with it. That's not the problem. The problem is the normal things. I remember every single thing I've ever done, okay? I know who Bucky Barnes was and how he acted and what he liked, and I feel in everything I do how different I am. I am not him. And I thought I could pretend, for you, and maybe even for me, but I can't anymore."

"Bucky," Steve choked out, lower lip quivering the way it always did when Steve was trying not to cry. "I-I don't... I don't care, if you're different or not. You have to know that. I just want you to be happy."

"Steve, if I'm not Bucky Barnes, there's no reason for me to be here," Bucky announced, crossing his arms over his bare chest to keep from reaching out for Steve.

"Of course there is, you're my best friend, Buck," Steve insisted, stubbornly ignoring the tears rolling down his face. "It doesn't matter how different you are."

"I'm not your best friend Steve. I was, before, but I'm not the person you care about. I'm nothing like him."

"That doesn't matter," Steve snapped.

"Of course it does. What's my favorite movie, Steve? What's my favorite thing to do on the weekends? What are the things I think about at three in the morning? Can you answer any of those questions?"

"You're favorite movie is _The Wizard of Oz_ ," Steve replied, voice shaking harder than his hands. "You like to go out dancing on the weekends in loud clubs and with your best clothes. At three in the morning you talk about the future and you create a perfect world for us that so impossible yet still has me believing every single word."

"That's not me, Steve," Bucky whispered, heart aching with the desire to go back to a stuffy Brooklyn apartment with its single bed and thin walls, when all of those things were true. "I wish it were, but it's not me. I'm different. My favorite movie right now is _Airplane_. It's from the eighties and it's full of puns and stupid jokes and Bucky Barnes would have hated it. But I love it. On the weekends I go to the mall and I buy anything that catches my interest from as-seen-on-TV crap that I will never use to Captain America night lights. And at three in the morning, I stare at the ceiling and imagine that you love me for who I am now instead of Bucky Barnes."

"But I do love you, Buck," Steve argued, looking so betrayed and pained. Bucky would give his other arm to make that look go away.

"You don't know me Steve," Bucky breathed, and that's everything. That's the center of all of this, Bucky is a different person and Steve doesn't know him anymore. Steve fell in love with Brooklyn-born Bucky Barnes who liked _The Wizard of Oz_ and dancing to Ella Fitzgerald, but that man was dead and Bucky was the unlucky son of a bitch who had to break the news.

Bucky decided that the jacket wasn't that important, even though he would have to face the nippy fall air shirtless. It certainly would be better than Steve's silent tears.

He let his hands fall to his sides and turned away from Steve, making his way towards the door. It's only when he reached the door that Steve broke his shocked silence.

"You don't know me anymore either," he confessed, and when Bucky turned to him, he looked shocked by his own words.

"Did you know I haven't been able to drawn anything in the past three years?" Steve continued. Bucky shook his head, eyes wide and trained on Steve's tear-stained face. "I tried when I woke up. I was afraid I might forget what everyone looked like and I tried to draw them: you, Peggy, the Commandos. Except I went through an entire sketchbook, tearing out every page because Peggy's nose seemed wrong and I couldn't get your smile right and I felt like I was drowning all over again because for the life of me I couldn't remember how to draw your smile and I knew I was never going to see it again."

Steve barely got the last word out before doubling over on himself. His entire body shook and heaved with the most awful sobs. And Bucky'd barely been able to hold himself back this whole time which is a miracle within itself, so he can't exactly be blamed for rushing over to Steve and catching him before he falls.

"My favorite movie is _Pacific Rim_ , even though Tony says it's stupid, because the beginning reminded me of you and I know you- the old you, would've loved how science-y it was. On the weekends, I used to bring flowers to your grave, but I haven't done that since I found you again. Now I mostly stay at home because even though I know you only come on Sunday's, I feel like I need to be here in case you show up early. And at three in the morning... At three in the morning when I can't sleep because I know I'll dream about that goddamn train again, sometimes I wonder what I could do to convince you to stay the night because I'm so fucking lonely."

Bucky kneeled on the stiff hardwood floor, holding Steve against his chest similar to last night. He pulled back slightly though, and managed to smile through his own tears.

"Well, pal," he said, holding his hand out. "It's nice to meet you."

Steve snorted. Well, it was more a cross between a snort and sob, but Steve shook his hand anyway so Bucky will count it as a win anyway.

"Nice to meet you too," Steve agreed, before leaning forward and pressing their mouths together. It's like all the tension in his body seeped out, and Bucky melted into Steve, wrapping his arms around the blond's waist. It was mostly chaste, sweet and slow, lips gliding over each other in a soft reassurance.

"Think you're moving a little fast there, Romeo," Bucky murmured, smiling slowly. "We only just met."

"Mmmm," Steve sighed, forehead pressed against Bucky's. "A little too fast for you, old man?"

"Really? The old jokes already?" Bucky sighed, shaking his head. Steve beamed. "I'll show you fast, pal. Move in with me."

It came out as a question even though Bucky didn't mean it to be.

"What?" Steve asked, not looking upset which was great, just shocked and confused which was less great. "Move in with you?"

"You want to get to know me," Bucky explained. "And everything me is in that apartment. So I want you to come home with me and stay for a while and see if you like it."

"Really?" Steve confirmed, fighting against a smile like he doesn't want to get his hopes up.

"Absolutely," Bucky agreed, and there was still a fear of what Steve will think of him, the new him, but Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky's neck and clung to him like a lifeline, so it felt worth the risk.  “Let’s go home, pal.”

~

Bucky finished his walk earlier than usual.  It was a Wednesday, and that meant later tonight he and Steve were going out to dinner.  The weather was nice, and he could have walked for hours more before getting tired, but Steve was at home, in their apartment, making lunch by now probably, and Bucky, like the sap he is, missed him like crazy.

Steve would usually walk with him, holding hands and sharing a pair of headphones as they breathed in spring air and enjoyed the park, but Steve felt inspired this morning, and Bucky let him have some space to work.

When he got home, Steve was not making sandwiches, but was still sitting on the couch hunched over the Captain America themed sketchbook Bucky had got him for Christmas.  (Bucky still thinks it’s the funniest thing every time Steve uses it.)  Bucky walked over to the couch, placing his hands on Steve’s shoulders as he leans forward to see what he’s drawing.

“How’s it coming?” he asked, kissing Steve’s temple.  There’s a rough sketch of Natasha on the page that will soon be colored and finalized.  It eventually will be offered to Natasha herself when she and Sam come over on Friday night like they always do for drinks and poker.  And then if Natasha doesn’t want another sketch of her looking amazing, it will end up on the fridge in the college of Steve’s artwork that Bucky has been collecting.

“I can’t get the top of her hair right,” Steve whined, leaning back so his head falls against Bucky’s chest.  “I forget how curled it was last time we saw her.”

“Hmm, well, we’ll see her soon enough.  You can check then,” Bucky suggested.  “I’m gonna make us sandwiches.”

“Alright,” Steve agreed, turning back to his work.  “And after lunch, you can pose for me for a while.”

“I can do a lot more than pose, pal,” Bucky called over his shoulder, walking towards the kitchen.  He dodged the pillow Steve sent his way without even looking back.  

“Shut up!”

Bucky laughed as he strolled over to the fridge, admiring, as he does every time, the dozens of sketches and paintings that Steve has let him hang on the front of the fridge.  His favorite, however, doesn’t stay on the fridge, but instead is hung on the wall in their bedroom.  It’s the first sketch Steve did after moving in and it’s of Bucky sitting in a blanket nest, five hours into a Netflix binge and two days since he last washed his hair.  He looks disgusting in the sketch, but Bucky still loves it.  Because every time he sees that picture, he sees who he is now, not 1940’s Bucky Barnes, but this century’s version.  And just like he can see the tenderness that Steve draws the old Bucky with, he can see the loving care Steve took drawing the new him.  And when he can’t sleep at night, he stares at that picture and thanks the stars above that they found each other again.

**Author's Note:**

> I also have a [tumblr](applejuiz.tumblr.com)


End file.
